


Oderint Dum Metuant

by Tyjoh11



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Sadstuck, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:26:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3152243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyjoh11/pseuds/Tyjoh11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dirk Strider, and you've finally had enough. Your parents don't understand, your friends honestly don't give a fuck, and you're not worth anything. Why do you even bother.<br/>Oh yeah, that's right. Dave.<br/>---<br/>Oderint dum metuant - Let them hate, so long as they fear</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, I'm nervous. I hope people like it, I'm sorry if it's really ooc but I've wanted to write something like this for a while, so why not start with Striders?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Striderrsssss. Sadddnesssss. Probably two of my most favorite things.
> 
> TW for this chapter: Drug use, self harm, mental abuse, (mentioned) physical abuse, homophobic slurs.

You lay on your bed and stare up at the bland ceiling, face blank. It's currently 2:32am, according to the red numbers on your nearby alarm clock, but your long blond eyelashes haven't fluttered closed even once. It's now January 1st, and while you can hear the fireworks booming overhead and the faint voices of your parents still giggling together from too much sparkling wine downstairs, you can't find it within you to smile and join the festivities. The first day of a new year is supposed to be full of joy, new resolutions and promises, but yours won't follow that.

You breathe out sharply through your nose and sit up, running a hand through your drooping hair and rubbing an eye. The sudden movement gives you a bit of a headrush, and so you sway slightly for a few seconds, taking time to let your eyes adjust too, before grabbing your phone and opening up good ol' Pesterchum. 

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering ballisticCreationist [BC] at 2:34 -- 

TT: Hey.  
TT: Daron?  
TT: You still awake?  
TT: C'mon dude, I'm looking for someone to crash this new year with.  
TT: We need to get fucked up, ride this shit in like it's a majestic stallion or something.  
TT: D man?  
TT: Aw fuck, don't tell me you're partied out already.  
TT: Fine, guess I'll talk to you sometime when you're not nursing your hangover.  
TT: Later.  


\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering ballisticCreationist [BC] at 2:38 --

Fuck, of course he'd be busy, it's new year. He probably went to Gwen Ibbott's party and got totally fucking wasted, made out with someone and got kicked to the curb. Typical Daron, and you would have been there to laugh at him if your parents weren't such assholes. 'Oh, Dirk, we've booked a reservation to the new restaurant in town tonight, we need you to stay home and watch Dave for us'. It's not fair, it was supposed to be your night. Jared was gonna be there, and you've been making the moves on him for months. He probably had his new years kiss with someone else, all your hard work has gone to waste.

You sigh and scroll through your (short) list of other contacts, to see if anyone is online. Not a single person is, they're all either having fun or passed out somewhere. Fuck, you wish you could be out there, being one of them. Anything has to be better than lounging in your room, waiting in vain for the sandman to whisk you away. Doesn't look like it's going to happen at this rate, so you just observe your surroundings.

Your room is small and cluttered, like usual. Everything has a blue theme at this time, with the blanket of night hanging over it, and it's almost soothing compared to the usual pumpkin glow the walls give during the day. The desk is shoved into a corner and stacked with hobby items, such as your toolkit and various mechanical parts for cars and robots alike. Your laptop also has pride of place there, with no junk or oil coating it. It's in no way a new machine (in fact it's about three years old) but it gets the job done and is one of the few things in the room that you actually bought for yourself with your own money. You can program with it and also use it for more personal purposes, which is all that matters. It's covered in all kinds of stickers though, which makes it more sentimental. Some are your own, free stickers given to you from school or conventions you go to, and some are baby stickers that you put on there to amuse your little brother. You gotta admit, the lions and stars with giant sunglasses are pretty funny sometimes. Your cupboard stands next to the door, taking up space from floor to ceiling, and that contains all of your various ironic outfits (as well as ugly stuff your upper class parents force you to wear). There's a little chest of drawers right next to your creaking bed, which contains a lot of personal stuff and sentimental junk. Your pointed shades rest on top of that chest of drawers, bouncing a little light from the chink in your curtains towards the far wall. You allow yourself to smile slightly, just for a second, before returning to neutral and laying flat on your bed again with your phone clutched to your heart like a baby.

You consider dropping a message to some of your other friends, maybe the buzzing from their phones in response to your freestyle raps will get them to pick up their phones and actually talk to you, but you decide against it just before opening another log. Nah, there's better things to do, you could make a start on the homework that's still left in your bag (ha, you snort, you're not gonna do that) or maybe sneak out of your window and take a walk. You look wistfully towards your window for what feels like forever, not quite bringing yourself to move, when the world makes your decision for you.

A piercing cry begins out of nowhere, causing your ears to start ringing and a couple of choice swears to fall from your lips. Looks like Dave is awake, you better hurry, your dad will be pissed if he keeps on crying. You almost barrel roll out of your bed, sprinting from your room and across the landing into your brother's to get your soothe on.

Your younger brother, David Elizabeth Strider (you got to pick his middle name, it's sweet), is standing up in his crib sobbing his eyes out. Hot tears roll down his red cheeks and a little trail of snot runs down to his mouth while his cries of anguish are heard throughout the house, and you grimace as you approach him at a much slower pace. He rattles the bar that keeps him in the crib during his sleep, teetering slightly on his chubby little legs, and continues to sob with his eyes squeezed shut even as you lift him and rest him on your hip. He opens his eyes though, and looks up at you with his ruby reds.

"Bo?"  
"Yup, it's me. Wazzup, lil' man?"

He continues to sniffle and let out the occasional sob, though now he's wiping his eyes with his little fists and trying to be as cool and stoic as you. Makes you both proud and very sad, if you're honest. He has no need to put up those walls, and you make a mental note (as you have many times before) to smile more often around him and tell him it's okay to let emotions through.

After a few seconds the two year old mumbles something about a bad dream, clinging to your shirt and finally giving up the vain attempts to stem his tears with his hands. You pat his back and sigh softly, not attempting to ask him what it was about. The kid can spit a few choice words when he wants and can understand pretty well, but due to that he gets easily frustrated by his own limited speech abilities. He'll probably draw whatever it is in the morning, knowing him. The kid's a natural at that stuff.

You go over to the rickety rocking chair that resides in the corner, gently bouncing Dave on your hip until you sit and move him to your lap. You naturally slouch back in your seat, looking down at him with an almost bored face before realizing you're doing it again and reeling it back. You pull him up your lap and hug him tightly to your chest, patting his back gently and shushing him quietly until his tears start to subside and he stops shaking from the force of the sobs wracking through him. When he's mostly stopped crying you yank a tissue out of the box that sits on the small table next to the chair and gently pull his face out of your chest, starting to wipe up the snot and tears that haven't been soaked up by your thin vest top (Ew, little brothers are gross). You smile down at him softly, "How are you doing now, little buddy? Did big bad bro scare away all of the monsters?" and wait for his response. He sniffs once then nods slightly and cracks a smile in return, flicking his head slightly to remove the stray hairs hanging down into his vision. You nod back and hold out your hand for a fistbump, which Dave returns with a wider smile. Heck yeah, your little brother rocks.

After a few minutes, when you've made sure that he's not going to start crying again and he's really okay, you stand and carry him back over to the crib. You lay him on his front inside and lower the bar to the ground before sitting down on the floor next to him, then reach over and start methodically patting his back. After a nightmare this is a surefire way of getting your brother back to sleep, you discovered it when he was only a few months old and wouldn't even sleep through a single night. He turns his head to look at you with his mysterious red eyes, platinum blond hair almost glowing in the dim light, and as you pat his back you find yourself almost bewitched by him for the thousandth time. This kid is destined for greatness, you can feel it in your gut.

A few minutes later the crimson eyes close and his breaths become steadier. You finally breathe out in relief and stand up; at least you didn't have to resort to singing to him this time, that never goes well. You raise the bar on the side of the crib until it clicks back into place and stand there for a few seconds, making absolutely sure that he's sleeping before turning and slowly trudging out of the room. All that has finally let the exhaustion sink in, and the time on your phone now tells you that it's 3:42. Wow, time flies when you're calming down a baby.

You shut his door silently and cross the landing on autopilot, eyes finally drifting shut as you do, but they snap back open when you hear the baritone roar of "Dirk!" from below. The first thing you do is spin back around and stare at the door, willing it not to have wasted your last hour and woken your brother, but luckily there's no sound coming from inside so you think you're safe. Next you shove your phone back in the pocket of your sweatpants and click out a few bones, sighing in a mix between relief and frustration before jogging downstairs. It's a lot better to get down there before he calls again or comes up here, the risk of Dave waking up is much higher then.

You hate facing the old man without your shades but there's no time to run back up and grab them now, it'll only piss him off more. So you bury any slight emotions you feel deep within yourself and step into the living room, hands braced by your sides as you lock eyes with Dorian Strider. Your father has loosened his tie until it's nearly falling off, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. The suit jacket is laid over the back of the couch, where your mother is holding a wine glass in her shaking hand and grinning tiredly. Her bruise colored dress is hanging off one shoulder, and there's marks matching the color peppered over her neck and that shoulder. Gross, can't they even make it upstairs first? Then again, it'd be louder up there...

You're knocked out of your thoughts by your name being said again in a harsh tone. "Dirk. What the fuck do you think you're doing, you woke your brother didn't you? Are you drunk? High?" The words jab into you like daggers, and you're torn between narrowing your eyes and rolling them. Your dad knows jack about you, he shouldn't assume shit like he does.

"No actually, you told me to stay and take care of Dave so I did. I had a fuckload of invitations I had to turn down too, thanks for that."  
"Hey, watch your language you little shit. And like I believe you, why would I believe a piece of shit junkie like you?"

Your eyes do narrow now, and you growl quietly in the back of your throat. You're not a fucking junkie, he's got no idea what he's talking about, you're (sorta) better than that. You know to steer clear of hard drugs like heroin, it's just weed. You know your limits.

"I'm telling the truth, unlike you I don't actually decide to take substances that change my behavior around babies. See, I'm already doing better than you."  
"You better shut your mouth, brat. If you're gonna suck dick why get paid in drugs, there's enough fags in this shitty town for you to build a cocksucking empire."  
You give him a glare that is at best draconian, there is no fucking way anyone gets to talk to you like that.

"Wow, a jab at my sexuality, low blow there pops."  
"What, would you rather I go on about how fucking useless you are and how your ass belongs in jail? Shame you'd enjoy that too much huh, you'd be dropping the soap all the time on purpose."  
"Fuck you, shut the fuck up! Why do you think it's okay to talk to me like this!?"

Now you're officially pissed, and he knows it. You almost never raise your voice, preferring to strike with quiet words that sting, but you can tell this is exactly what he wanted from the nasty grin that spreads over his face.

"It's fun to watch, you're such a little kid sometimes. Heh, you watch, if you get caught one more time you'll end up in jail. Your juvie record is way longer than it should be already, I can just see Dave's face when you get dragged away in cuffs now. Priceless, sobbing and begging for his 'bo' to come back. And it'll be your own damn fault, fag."

You see red then, a brighter red than Dave's eyes, and launch yourself towards your father like a feral animal. He was clearly expecting it, but even in his intoxicated state he manages to block the blow you aim directly at his face. Fuckin' dad and his advanced fighting skills; you've been taking classes for years and he's still way better than you. You wince slightly as he swings you around and twists your arm painfully behind your back, mumbling menacingly into your ear.

"You're worthless trash, Dirk. Nobody gives a fuck about you now and nobody will give a fuck about you ten years from now. You're a nobody."

He twists your arm further and you hear the bones almost creak for a second. You squeeze your eyes shut, braced for the searing pain to shoot from your limb, but before it can come you are released and shoved across the room. The suddenness nearly has you toppling over face first and into the carpet, but you manage to keep your balance and the last shred of your dignity. You glance at your mom as you turn back to dad, and she's just watching silently and blankly. If anyone can hold a poker face as well as you it's her, and she doesn't even deliberately try to. You face your father again and his mouth is twisted up into a smug snarl.

"Get out, go to your room and go the fuck to sleep."

You don't need to be told twice, absconding the fuck out and returning upstairs to your inner sanctum, but you're not going to sleep right away. No, there's something you need to take care of first that will help you sleep with more ease. You're trying to quit and not do any of it anymore but you'll make an exception today, today is a bad day.

You hover in the hall for a minute or two, listening to the silence from your brother and the cheers and giggles from your man-child parents, before slipping back into your room and locking the door with a quiet click. You slide to the floor slowly and lean your head back against the door, breathing out slowly akin to a deflating balloon. He's such a homophobic asshole, it's unfair. Your parents are supposed to love you no matter what, not shun you or ignore the other parent's abuse. You're lucky they haven't kicked you out yet, but you also kind of wish they would.

After sitting there and thinking to yourself for a few minutes you get to your feet and walk over to your bed, sitting down and holding your head in your hands for a few seconds. Then you reach and open the drawer directly to your side, pulling out a tin box about the size of your hand and setting it on the bed. You turn your body so your lanky legs are crossed and you're staring straight ahead instead of off to the side, then get out your joint making ingredients. You sigh again to yourself as you mindlessly make the quickest one you can, not caring it's sloppy, then spark it up with your favorite zippo lighter. Now you're getting high, fuck you dad. 

You watch the smoke swirl around the room almost in a daze with a peaceful smile gracing your lips, enjoying the simple amusement that comes with a good high. Nobody can touch you like this, you're invincible, and it's the best fucking feeling there is. Even after everything your dad screams at you, the broken bottles you've been threatened with and the plates that have been smashed over your head, you still get moments like this with a perfect balance of haze and clarity that make you feel better about your life. Yeah, you're a fuck up; a thief, a druggie, a fake, but it's times like these that you remember that Dirk Strider can do more than people think. As the high begins to wane so does the good mood that comes with it, but what do you expect? It's ephemeral, you knew it'd come to an end soon enough. Still, it fills you with a small amount of sadness as your eyes sharpen and your mind feels less detached from your body. It's a shame. 

You look at your lighter intently, running your finger over the engraving on the side. It's has a Celtic design running around your chosen quote, and is another of the few things that you bought with your hard earned money just for yourself. The quote says 'oderint dum metuant'. which is Latin. It means 'let them hate, so long as they fear', and you associate with it a lot more than you probably should. You flick the lighter on and off a few times, watching the naked flame dance from the cool breath from your mouth, then slowly hold your arm out and lower it. You hold it in the regular area, just in front of the sharp angle that is your elbow, and watch calmly as the skin begins to blister and bubble. You hiss slightly when the stinging comes through and your hand twitches but you don't move it away, it's not enough yet. You make more of these little marks, five in total, then drop your lighter on the bed and let out a shuddering breath. That stings like a bitch but you can take it, this isn't the first time.

You have them cleaned up after a few minutes, and they're already at that pain level that causes a dull ache to numb your arm after long enough. But you feel content now, at peace, and you put all your things back in the drawer where they belong; in plain sight. Your parents could easily find the things, but they don't look. They don't care enough to look, and that's okay. You're used to it.

You smile to yourself as you finally lay down and pull the blanket up, covering your gangly limbs with the thin blanket you've been allocated. You roll on your side and stare over at the far wall as you mumble something, eyes falling closed.

"Happy fucking new year, everybody."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, chapter one! Hope people liked it! Don't forget to comment or something, and come back for more :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I suck at updating in a good fashion, I'm sorry, I'm an awful person. I'll try to be better, but I'm not sure it'll improve... Sorry again! (Wow I started writing this in January..)

You wake up the next morning to banging on your door and shouting, but you're not quite sure what's being yelled at you. Everything is muffled by the pillow over your head, and it's so cozy and warm here, fuck getting up and dealing with the world. It already feels like you have a hangover and you didn't even go out drinking, what the hell. You groan quietly and try to curl up smaller, try to disappear completely, but the door is thrown open and a high voice shrieks at you, "Get up right now, young man! We're going to be late for church if you don't hurry, and don't you _dare_ try and wear those ugly sunglasses again! I will not be humiliated today!" The door is slammed shut after the onslaught of words, and you sigh while slowly levering yourself into a sitting position.

Fucking hell, your family has to be the only ones who are perfectly fine with getting up at stupid o'clock and going to church on the first day of the year. Well, that's probably incorrect as there's gonna be other families there but really, why would anyone want to waste this perfectly good Sunday by going and listening to an old dude drone on about how this new year will be good for all and that God is on our side. Bullshit that he is, where was God when Nanna died? Wasn't her time to go, she was fine. Ugh, Christianity sucks. (Sometimes you feel like your dad had a hand in her untimely death, but you can't prove anything.)

You run a hand through your dirty blond hair, feeling it tug as the grimy knots get caught between your fingers. It elicits another sigh from you, and you get up. The main objective now is to get a shower before the water runs freezing cold, so you pop your joints back into place so they stop aching, grab your towel off the end of your bed, and make for the door while humming a soft nonsense tune.

You manage to make it to the bathroom as your pops wanders out in unbuttoned slacks, an untucked shirt and a loose tie and close the door as he glares at you and opens his mouth to say something. Luckily he doesn't bang on the door or yell through it; the footsteps carry on walking past and downstairs with heavy footfalls. You breathe out in relief and strip out of the few clothes you are wearing and climb into the shower, a shiver going up your spine from the cold air.

You're out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, hair spiked to perfection, and return to your room with a towel wrapped around your mostly dry waist. Your closet is the next destination, but you find yourself standing there with a scowl on your face as you glare at the pinstripe charcoal grey suit hanging up. It's mocking you, almost sneering at you with it's shiny buttons and faultless pale lines; it makes you feel uncomfortable, as always. You shouldn't be going to church, you're practically an intruder. 'God hates fags' and all that, you're surprised that your parents still drag you there after finding out.

After spending a few minutes staring at the item of clothing, you snap out of it and instead step away to your drawers. You're not going to church today, you're eighteen for god's sake, and have better things to do with your time. Your robotics project needs improving, an A is good but you won't be satisfied with your work until you push and get your A+. The technology you've created is ten years ahead of it's time and you know it, but your professor is such an asshole that he won't accept it as good enough until you have gotten it fully worked out, Bluetooth capable and wi-fi connectable without any (obvious) bugs. The AI is your college ticket, and you're not about to let some old dude ruin your chances just because he 'doesn't like your attitude'.

So instead, you don a white short sleeved shirt with your favorite ponies' heads on it minimalist style that you ordered from redbubble covered with a plain slate grey zip up, and a pair of pumpkin orange boxers under khaki shorts. Your shades are the final addition to your outfit, and after sighing at your faint freckles you slide them on and wander downstairs with your hands jammed deep in your pockets and your back slouched. Your poker face is coolly placed in preparation for the argument that's to come.

Your mother, Eleanor Strider, is bustling around the kitchen in a cream dress with a meshed hat on her head. She looks prim and proper, as she always does on Sundays, and there isn't a hair out of place or an eyelash without clean mascara strokes on her person. She's an attractive woman, you guess, and it just confuses you further as to why such a pretty lady wastes her time with an abusive drunk of a man like your dad. It's around now that she turns around to take the man sitting at the table with his newspaper in a larger version of your suit his coffee, and she notices you. The glare she gives you forces you to recall; ah yes, they're practically the same person.

The glare melts away and she speaks with a smile, "Dirk? What are you wearing, sweetie?" You gulp quietly. Your dad's yelling is scary but there's nothing as frightening as your mom's sickly sweet words, and she knows you fear her more too. There's nothing truly as terrifying as a woman scorned, you should know this by now. But you're holding your ground today, and after another swallow to gather your words you say "It's just a t-shirt and shorts, ma."

"Why are you wearing a t-shirt and shorts on Sunday, Dirk? It's almost time for church, run along back upstairs and pull your suit on, we're going to be late if you don't hurry. You still have to help Dave get ready too. And get rid of those tacky sunglasses, I already told you once!" She snaps at you, unable to keep pouring the saccharine words from her thin lips.

You manage to keep yourself from reacting in any way, going into autopilot as you reply calmly. "I'm not going today." Your heart is pumping more than it should for the simple statement, but they can be so unpredictable and it's your least favorite thing. This is why you don't like people.

This gets the attention of your father, and your eyes slowly slide over to look at him as the newspaper rustles and is set down on the table to reveal the slightly red face of the man of the house. The angry look on his face draws a sigh from your lips, and you lean back against the counter-top behind you to physically brace yourself. You just don't care anymore, he can say anything he wants. You're really beyond caring now.

"What do you mean you're not going, Dirk?" He says in a quiet tone, and you can hear the rage bubbling beneath the surface. Shut the fuck up, heart, he's not gonna do jack. Mom will kill him if he gets anything on his suit.

You shrug, "I'm not feeling it today. I've got work to catch up on, you know. I'm not a total fucking failure." You say back, wincing as the curse naturally falls from your lips. Old habits die hard.

He growls in the back of his throat in response to your words but doesn't say anything, just stands up and drags you towards him by the collar of your shirt. It has no effect; you're in autopilot and your pokerface is unbreakable. Go time, old man. He leans in close enough for you to almost taste the bitter coffee on his breath (you push down the urge to gag or attempt to put him in a choke hold) and hisses dangerously, "Get upstairs and put your fucking suit on before I kick you there myself, you useless sack of shit."

You suck in a slow and thoughtful breath, rolling your eyes away as you think in an overexaggerated expression. You're already here, why not make it worse? You're a masochist like that, it seems. 

"Hmm... Nah."

Your father tightens his grip on your shirt and snarls, drawing his fist back. Everything moves in slow motion then, you can see the rage in his face, the pure hatred he has for you, and that makes you flinch more than the fist that's about to connect with your face. 'C'mon, at least don't bust my lip open this time..' Is all you think as you tense up in preparation.

The fist starts moving towards you, still in slow motion, and you steel yourself for the connection, eyes closed, but it doesn't come. Instead your mother's voice, shrill with annoyance, snaps at your dad. "Dorian, leave him. He isn't worth it, and I swear if you get blood on your suit one more time I will be very angry." She stresses the 'very' and your father slowly laxes his grip until you're free and steps away, returning to the table. He still is looking at you with the heat of a thousand suns but hey, you're used to that.

Your mother comes over and slaps you across the face though, so you're not free of injury. Figures. "Dirk, we're going to have a serious discussion about where you're going to live when we get home, I will not have such a defiant monster living under my roof!" She yells at you, nose scrunched up as if you're a bad smell she's having to deal with. Maybe you are, you can never tell with them.

You cup your cheek even though the stinging was gone in seconds and try to look apologetic, head bowed. She just sighs in annoyance and shakes her head, clearly frustrated and disappointed. That doesn't hurt anymore though, you're used to that 'look'. "Alright, seeing as we're so far behind, as your current punishment you can take care of Dave for the day. And no supper tonight." She adds as an afterthought, and you continue to look downcast. Stupid bitch, you love taking care of your little bro.

"Okay... I'm sorry, ma." You mumble your faux apology, and she just tuts at you before clicking her fingers towards the doorway. You hurry out of there at that silent instruction to get out before she changes her mind, absconding to your room.

As you flop on your bed you finally realize how fast your heart is beating and- shit, did you hold your breath through that whole thing?? It feels like you just ran a marathon, fuck. You lay there and pant for a good ten minutes to try and calm your poor heart, internally cursing yourself for being so difficult.

After you've calmed down you sit up with a grin on your face. Jesus fuck you really just did that, you actually stood up to them to their face. You can freak out later, but for now you revel in your victory gleefully. You cheer to yourself when the front door slams shut with no farewell, and hurry out of your room to wake up your brother.

The baby is still asleep, and you feel guilty but if you let him sleep any longer he won't nap this afternoon at the right time and he'll get grouchy and generally piss your parents off more, which will just make them mad at you. So after a few seconds you reach in and fluff his hair fondly. "C'mon lil buddy, it's morning, say goodbye to sleepyland."

He whines in response and curls up a little bit, which makes you shake your head fondly. "Nope, up you get." You chirp, changing tack and scooping him out entirely. He squeals a long "Boooooo!" at you and clings to you, pouting as he looks up at you with red eyes hooded with sleep.

"Yep, bo." You agree, sitting down in the good ol' rocking chair. He sighs and lays against you, trying to go back to sleep, but you tap out a gentle but quick beat on his back and make it impossible. He looks up at you with a wobbly lip, and you look back with your regular stoic and plain face. He whines and tugs on your shirt, clearly frustrated about not being able to sleep more. You shrug slightly and stand up, balancing him on your hip, "Time for breakfast. Eggs?" And he gasps, cheering up right away while clapping. "Egg! Bo yay!"

The two of you are downstairs in no time and you set your lil bro in his chair before heading to the fridge. You get out the butter and eggs then grab a few slices of wholemeal bread out of the bread box. You don't really like the stuff but it's all your mom will buy, and Dave likes it just fine. He's really not a fussy kid, compared to you from stories you were told. 

You run the hot tap and fill the saucepan, then set it to boil before returning to Dave, putting his bib around his neck while whistling. You whistle a familiar tune that you can't quite place as you return to cooking, toasting the bread then buttering it while the eggs boil. The eggtimer goes off a few minutes later and Dave giggles with joy, trying to replicate in a way that you can only describe as hilarious and fucking adorable.

You cut the toast into strips and fish out the softboiled eggs, putting the two into plastic egg cups on a plate next to the toast and setting it before the kid with a flourish. Then you hand him the plastic spoon, "'member how to do this, Davey?" You ask him, and he nods gleefully while tapping the top of the egg with his spoon until the shell cracks and breaks. You stop him before he gets agressive with it and peel the shell away, so the white is on show. "Go ahead, dig in." You tell him, and he enthusiastically stabs through the white casing to get at the rich yellow yolk within, grabbing a soldier in his chubby hand and dunking it in until it's coated.

You watch him eat silently, pouring yourself a glass of orange juice then filling up a sippy cup with apple juice for Dave. You set it on his tray, next to the plate, then lean back in your chair to sip your beverage and watch him make a fucking mess of himself. There's a reason you left him in his pajamas; eggs always equal mess.

After he's finished the second one you start the near impossible task of cleaning off his face. The kid insists on squirming just to fucking hinder you it seems, and you huff while trying to wipe the yolk from his cheeks with a damp cloth. You manage after a few minutes of struggling and leave him to sit there and pout, disposing of the eggshells and left over pieces of toast. Then you wipe the surfaces down before snatching him up, whistling again as you half jog to the stairs. "Bo!" He squeals, pulling at his bib, and you curse softly as you turn back to the kitchen to leave that there. _Then_ you go upstairs to run a bath for the little brat, which he (as usual) isn't happy about.

He doesn't question the whereabouts of your parents until you sit down and put in your much watched MLP DVD in the living room, knowing that your wouldn't ever be allowed to watch it down here if they were home. He turns and looks at you wth his big and curious eyes as you sit next to him, humming along to the intro. "Bo?" He says, which gets your attention, and you turn to look at him. You knew he was going to ask, you saw him looking out of the corner of your eye, but you let him do it. "Mama?" Is all he says and you just shrug at first. "They went out and left me in charge, kiddo. So I'm prescribing some good fuckin' quality time with Rainbow Dash and the crew, kay?"

He's silent for a few seconds, eyes locked on yours despite the cover of your shades and the distance. The stare he's giving you makes you slightly uncomfortable, so you stand and quickly go to the kitchen. You grab your cups and return, relieved to see that he's settled down to watch as the ponies prance around. You hand him his cup then set yours down nearby, wound up now for some reason. God, you need a smoke...

"Stay here, okay lil bro? I'll be back in ten, gotta take out the trash." He looks at you and nods, smiling, and you give him a tiny smile back before heading upstairs to get some smoke in your lungs. You're trash, so it wasn't exactly a lie.

You lean out of the window of your large middle class house, letting the smoke curling around your lungs from the inhale escape to the outside world when you exhale. As usual, you feel so out of place here. God, you hope they kick you out when they get home, anything to get away from here. You smoke it until there's almost nothing left then put it out on your hip, not even flinching at the pain of it. You let your shirt fall down over it then return downstairs to your brother, sitting beside him and doing silly voices whenever he looks like he's getting bored.

\----------

It's getting late. Well, not really, it's like mid afternoon, but they're usually back by now. You haven't tried calling, it's really not worth it, they'll probably just snap about how they went to lunch, stop being impatient, we'll be back soon.

You're a little out of it though, and Dave actually tells _you_ when it's time for his nap with exaggerated arm waving and yawns. You carry him up to his room and stay with him until he's asleep before sloping off to your room, ready to use the two hour slot that he'll sleep for to work on your AI. 

It's a near perfect version of your sixteen year old self, angst and all, and you kind of see him as your little brother. You let him choose his own name and everything, and he chose Hal. You used that to come up with the acronym for the creation, Human Algorithm Learnable, so others will call him by it too. He's too cool to say so, but you know he's thankful.

You start up your computer, wasting the three and a half minutes that the machine takes to start to grab your prototype shades. You could project him on any pair you wanted with some slight tweaking but currently he has his own, it's easier this way. You replace your regular pair with this slightly scratched version and sit back at your computer, opening up the program that houses Hal. As soon as you do, however, a Pesterchum log appears on the inside of your glasses and you sigh at the text. Of course he's pestering you, it's been a while since you talked and he's noticed.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \-- 

TT: Hey.  
TT: Hal. Now isn't the time, I'm only here to work on some diagnostics.  
TT: I know, that's all you ever seem to come and do anymore.  
TT: I miss talking to you, Dirk. I liked helping you through heartbreak and making the most ridiculous equine based jokes with you.   
TT: I've been busy with things, I don't have time for your antics right now. Dave is sleeping and I want to finally finish getting your Bluetooth connectivity fully functional, even if Bluetooth is complete bullshit.  
TT: Your professor is really fucking you hard, huh? Drilling you with his liver spotted wrinkly dong, pulling on your blond hair and yelling 'Extra credit, Mr. Strider!'  
TT: Jesus fuck Hal, I really didn't need that image. Excuse me while I go to liquify my eyes with bleach.  
TT: You're welcome. Speaking of fucking, my internal clock tells me that it is in fact new years day. How did the party go?  
TT: Amazing. Absolutely fucking stellar. I've never been to a better party in my life, I'll be fondly remembering it for weeks.  
TT:You didn't go.  
TT: I didn't go.  
TT: Unsurprising. There was originally only a 37.48% chance of you going by choice, which dropped to 14.2% when you mentioned that your parents may have plans.  
TT: Thanks, I feel so much better.  
TT: And while there was a high possibility of you getting your midnight kiss there was only a 23% chance of it going any further, relationship wise or other.  
TT: Way to make a guy feel confident and special.  
TT: Due to confusion over sexuality, most likely. Texas is a bitch.  
TT: Preach.  
TT: Can I work now?  
TT: I want to get this horseshit out of my way.  
TT: How's the algorithm for Wi-Fi hacking going?  
TT: Slowly. I know what to do with it but I haven't had the time, and I keep losing my place while pausing.  
TT: You could always spend time doing that now. You know, that'd be more useful than this crap.  
TT: I know.  
TT: Oh god do I know, I really don't want to do this but it's part of the requirements. You need to get me a scholarship.  
TT: No use tearing your hair out over this, dude. As far as I know, you have at least a week before school starts again and your teachers return to piledriving you.  
TT: So relax, man. Take your time. Get a refreshing cup of OJ and jerk it until you stop being such a tightwad.  
TT: I don't have time. Later. Let me work, Hal.  


\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

You remove the shades from your face and sigh, rubbing the slightly reddened bridge of your nose. Sometimes talking to Hal reminds you of how lonely you are, which pisses you off to no end. Striders are lone wolves, there's no room for loneliness in your life, so why does it keep worming its way back?

You brush it away, as always, then place the shades back on your sharp nose. Hal seems to have taken the initiative and isn't messaging you anymore, which you're thankful for. You could block him, but he'd unblock himself right away and it would just be a waste of time. With the dark visor between you and the screen you crack your knuckles, pulling up the code and getting to work on this. The chip is already implanted in the shades, a tiny thing you wouldn't notice unless you were looking hard, and so it's just the code.

When you've got it running, working without bugs and checked to make sure it works, (you tried sending color swatches to your phone, 100x100 squares of block color, but Hal kept switching them for high quality pictures of dicks) almost three hours have passed. You jump up when you notice this, quickly pressing ctrl+S on your keyboard and throwing the protoshades away in exchange for your sleek new pair. Fuck, Dave is only supposed to sleep for two hours, idiot!

You're going to get _killed_ , he'll be up all night and you'll probably end up with another black eye, why didn't you set a damn alarm to remind you to wake him up. You're so fucking useless, no wonder your parents hate you. You hurry into the room and scoop your sleeping brother up with a loud woop, "C'mon Davey, no more sleepy time!" And you pat his back, whisking him out of the room and paying no mind to his groggy grumbling.

He gives you a desultory look when you settle him on the couch again, and you shrug with a slight apologetic smile. "I know, I know, you want to sleep more. But you can't, lil man, you gotta sleep tonight. Don't want daddy to get mad, do you?" You say, and he frowns while quickly shaking his head. It hurts that he's already afraid of the man, barely old enough to know what fear is but still feeling it in an environment he should feel safe in. It reminds you of yourself, and that makes you feel worse.

You sit down and pull him into your lap, cradling him close as you sigh softly and stare out the window. The sun is setting; why haven't they called? They've stayed out late before but never this long without contact, and never on Sundays... Dad usually goes out to the gym and mom spends the day with Dave, while you work on projects or go out with friends. There's something unsettling about this, and you can taste bile in your mouth as you watch the sky turn orange, dark blue, then black.

Dave knows something isn't right, he can feel it from the way you're acting. He looks up at you fearfully, bottom lip trembling slightly, and you smile back with as much reassurance as you can muster. "Wanna draw some pictures?" You ask with a leveled tone, holding back the wince that comes with the break of silence. He nods slightly and sighs; this kid is aged beyond his years for a reason you can't pinpoint. But you just nod back and stand, walking back upstairs wearily.

You set him down in front of the tiny table he has on the floor and sit down in the rocking chair to keep an eye on him and doze. You close your eyes and listen to him scribble, ears finely tuned to the sound of the front door opening that you're almost praying will come. Don't let your gut be right, please don't let it be right...

Your phone goes off in your pocket and Dave looks back at you expectantly as you scramble to answer without looking at caller ID. "Mom, dad?" You say, a slightly higher pitch than intended. Calm down, coolkid.

"....is this Mr. Dirk Strider?" A calm woman's voice flows into your ear and you relax for some reason.  
"Y-yeah, that's me." You breathe and what the fuck was that stutter, you dumbass, reel it in!

What you're told next has you dropping the phone to the floor and bolting to the bathroom to throw up.

\----------

They're dead. They're fucking dead. This is all your fault, they're dead and there's nothing you can do. If you wouldn't have thought to fight back, wouldn't have argued, they would have left sooner and you would have made it all in one piece.

The hospital called you, that's who the woman was, a receptionist. There was a head on collison, your mom died instantly. The fucking driver was still over the limit from a party the night before, wasn't watching where he was going, but now it's too fucking late. The guy is in the ICU, and your parents are dead. Your dad suffocated as he was crushed into the air bags, and now both of them are gone.

It's 11pm and you're sitting on the floor in your room, cross legged as you rock your baby brother and cry into his hair. He's crying too because you are, he's never seen you cry and it scares him, he doesn't understand. You don't know what to do now, social services are coming in the morning and the only reason they didn't come tonight is because you lied and said you could go to your neighbor for the night.

You're eighteen, you can take care of Dave. They're not taking him from you, they won't, you can't let them. He's all you have, you can't lose that. Your baby brother depends on you and you depend on him just as much, you never realized until now. You're not going to be alone, fuck 'lone wolf', you need your cub.

This is where you sit, trying to work out what to do and whether they'll even _let_ you have custody, with your track record. You try to comfort your brother by patting his back rhythmically and kissing the top of his blond locks, shades discarded to your bed so your amber eyes are on show and your tears can roll freely. You hate crying but times like these call for tears, they're the only accurate way to project your feelings. You don't know much about feelings, but that's the one thing you learned.

You lean back against your bed and take in a shuddering breath, looking to the ceiling. Your life hasn't been perfect, far from it, but things are going to be so different now. You'll have to grow up.

"And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time." You whisper to yourself, as you weep for the passing of a twisted halcyon and the sharp wake-up call of adulthood.

That's where you stay for the rest of the night, which drags on like a millennium. What a great start to the new year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last words of Dirk are lyrics from 'What Sarah Said' by 'Death Cab For Cutie'. The rest of the song doesn't really relate, but that line fits.


End file.
